Liam Barr

Every breath we take holds atoms that once made up our ancestors.
And when we die we flow back into the same earth.
It's been shared all along.

Everything is like that.
One thing follows another and moves the rest along.

Yet we forget it so easily.
We walk past strangers like they're nothing to do with us.
We hold back from family and sometimes even friends.

We're already woven together.
We just tend to forget.

It comes out sharper than we meant.
Half a second too quick.
We watch it land on their face.

So we reach for sorry.
We explain what we were trying to say.
We put a softer version on top.

Their face eases.
They say it's fine and they mean it.

But they're a little quieter for the rest of the night.
They laugh a beat later than usual.

Sorry can soften the words.
It can't unsay them.

Virtue always sounds a bit too big for us.
Like it belongs to people with statues.

The old meaning is plainer.
Being good at being a person.

The Stoics split it into four.
Wisdom. Justice. Courage. Self-control.

We use all four most mornings.
A pause before we reply.
The last slice split evenly.
The awkward thing said kindly.
An app closed before the scrolling starts.

Too small for a statue.
The right size for a morning.